


Golden

by moonlighten



Series: Feel the Fear [28]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 13:48:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2153010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mid 1930s: And Northern Ireland still hasn't started talking. England is trying very hard not to worry about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden

**Mid 1930s; London, England**  
  
  
  
Despite Wales’ remonstrations that he’d be letting out too much heat by doing so, England cannot resist taking yet another peek at his roast. He still doesn’t entirely trust that their new gas oven won’t explode without warning at any time, never mind that it can maintain itself at a perfect temperature – as the man who’d sold it to him had insisted – without the constant supervision their old coal-fired range had required.  
  
The meat is browning nicely, however, which makes him feel, once again, that he’s become superfluous to the entire cooking process.  
  
“It looks good, doesn’t it, North?” he asks.  
  
Northern Ireland scuttles over to dutifully peer into the oven. After a moment’s contemplation, he gives a bird-like bob of his head.  
  
“Smells good, too,” England says.  
  
Northern Ireland nostrils flare, mirroring England’s, and then he chirps out one of his little wordless noises: the one that England had, for a few glorious, heart-melting minutes a decade or so back, thought to be the sobriquet ‘Da’ up until it was used in reference to Scotland, Wales, the family dog and a glass of water in short order thereafter. Given its ubiquity of application, he has yet to discern whether Northern Ireland has assigned it some private definition of his own, or if England’s own desperation has caused him to imagine that there might be some deeper meaning to nothing more than a particularly noisy exhalation.  
  
“Well, let’s close this back up, shall we, before Wales worries himself sick about it.”  
  
England often finds himself narrating his every movement when Northern Ireland is around. Years ago, he’d hoped that the constant stream of words might help the lad to finally learn some of his own, but nowadays it’s become nothing more than a mindless habit.  
  
“Now, what do we need to do next?”  
  
Northern Ireland rocks back on his heels, and then frowns in what looks to be a thoughtful manner.  
  
“Prepare the rest of the vegetables, maybe.”  
  
Northern Ireland nods. He certainly _seems_ to understand everything that’s said to him, and he’s definitely got a good pair of lungs on him judging by his foghorn wailing on those occasions that he’d skinned his knees, had an upset stomach, or Mr Bear had gone walkabouts come bedtime. He just can’t seem to link capacity with comprehension and come up with speech.  
  
France, Portugal, his brothers and bosses – and even a woman in the local park with whom England had unintentionally fallen into a somewhat overwrought conversation that makes him cringe in retrospect – had all tried to reassure him that Northern Ireland’s lack of speech was nothing to worry about unduly, but England has never quite allowed himself to believe them.  
  
He looks to be the size of a human four-year-old now – or perhaps an unusually tall three-year-old – and most of them seem to chatter along perfectly happily at that age. In fact, Australia and America had never shut up when –  
  
“Here,” England says, lunging for a large bowl on the worktop in a bid to distract himself from his thoughts. “We’ll shell the peas together.”  
  
Northern Ireland glances from England’s face to the bowl and then back again. He very deliberately shakes his head.  
“Whyever not?” England’s voice swells to an embarrassingly shrill crescendo in surprise. Northern Ireland never normally refuses to obey a request, indirectly made or no. “I thought you wanted to help make dinner?”  
  
Northern Ireland’s eyes rise to the bowl again, and his nose wrinkles. A nod of confirmation is not forthcoming.  
  
“Everyone else is helping,” England points out. “Wales is preparing the carrots” – he turns towards his brother, who momentarily pauses in his chopping in order to acknowledge his notice with a small wave of his hand – “And Scotland…”  
  
Is not where he should be. Every potato in the pile he’d been tasked with peeling is still fully jacketed.  
  
A further quarter turn, rather more abruptly made than the first, brings England face-to-face with his oldest brother, who is sitting at the kitchen table with a recently lit cigarette in one hand, that morning’s newspaper in the other.  
  
“Is shirking his duties, apparently.”  
  
Scotland answers England’s disapproving glower with an expression which is infuriatingly serene. He takes a long drag on his cigarette and then exhales a few lopsided smoke rings before replying, “I’m just taking a breather.”  
  
“I imagine it must have been exhausting _thinking_ about all the work you had to do,” England says, rolling his eyes heavenward. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to do the potatoes now, otherwise they’ll never be ready in time. Which was no doubt your intention all along, wasn’t it?”  
  
Scotland lifts one elephantine shoulder in a lazy shrug. “You always tell me I don’t peel them properly, anyway.”  
  
“That’s not the point, Scotland.”  
  
The point, however, has been thrashed out many, many times before – often with paring knives held at each other’s throats – without ever reaching a conclusion satisfactory to either party. Whilst England would not normally averse to pressing the argument yet again, the beef really had smelt _very_ good, and his stomach growls at the thought of any unnecessary delays to dinner. Just this once, he decides to let Scotland’s indolence go unpunished.  
  
“Why don’t you help North with the peas?” he says. “You’d have to try pretty fucking hard to mess that up.”  
  
He holds the bowl of peapods out to Northern Ireland, who shies away from it as violently as if its mere proximity had burnt him.  
  
The final few dregs of patience that England had managed to cling onto after dealing with Scotland start to trickle away. “Stop playing silly buggers, North,” he says.  
  
Northern Ireland thrusts his hands deep into the pockets of his short trousers, and then glares at England defiantly.  
  
“If you don’t take this damn bowl and start shelling right now,” England growls, “I’m not going to have time to cook the peas, either, and then we’ll all have to go without.”  
  
Northern Ireland makes a noise that sounds a great deal like, “Good.”  
  
Following the ‘da’ debacle, England has become extremely cautious about reading too much into the sounds Northern Ireland makes, thus he’s on the verge of dismissing the similarity as nothing but coincidence when Northern Ireland adds, “I don’t like peas.”  
  
His voice is quiet, thin, barely more than a whisper, but the words are nevertheless so precise and distinct that there’s no mistaking them for anything other than a perfectly coherent sentence.  
  
From behind England, the snick of Wales’ knife slows to a halt. Scotland’s paper rustles. Everything else is still until Northern Ireland says, just as clearly, “They taste like shit.”  
  
“North,” Wales says in a reproving tone, “you shouldn’t say –“  
  
England hurriedly shushes his brother. “Don’t discourage him, Wales. He can say whatever he likes.”  
  
In this moment, he doesn’t think he would care if all that came forth from Northern Ireland’s lips henceforth was a torrent of swear words and curses so vile that they’d make even the most hardened of sailors want to take up some soap and water to wash out his mouth. He doesn’t even care that France has been proved right.  
  
He wants to grab Northern Ireland, hold him close in relief, but he’s sure that would simply serve to startle him into silence again. In fact, he’s so concerned that a misstep on his part now might dissuade his little brother from ever attempting to talk again that he cannot bring himself to do or say anything at all.  
  
Scotland, of course, appears to have no such compunctions. “You looked like you enjoyed that fancy meal France made for you last time he was here,” he says. “That was full of peas.”  
  
“France’s peas taste nice,” Northern Ireland – the little traitor – replies without even a proper pause for reflection and comparison.  
  
Scotland laughs, loudly and explosively, smoke billowing from his nostrils. Even Wales chuckles, although it sounds subdued enough that he must at least have tried to muffle it against the crook of his elbow or some such, as common decency would dictate.  
  
Personally, England finds no humour in Northern Ireland’s remark, only infuriation enough that he can overcome his earlier reticence and say, “That’s as may be, but you should eat them, regardless. They’re good for you.”  
  
Support comes from an unexpected quarter. “Aye,” Scotland agrees, nodding solemnly. “If you don’t eat your greens, you’ll end up scrawny like England, or a short-arse like Wales. You want to grow up to be big and strong like me, don’t you?”  
  
Northern Ireland regards Scotland intently with narrowed eyes. “No,” he says eventually. “You look like a bear.”  
  
To England’s disappointment, Scotland seems to find this insult to his person equally as hilarious as the one England had been dealt. “Fantastic,” he says, voice hitching with laughter. “You should do Wales next.”  
  
“Leave Wales out of it,” England says, having no wish to hear what incivility Northern Ireland might now see fit to dole out to their brother. He can’t quite believe how quickly his pure joy in finally hearing Northern Ireland’s voice has become tarnished, but, then again, it only serves to prove – if proof were either wanted or needed after all these years – that there can be no possible happiness in his life that Scotland can’t find a way to ruin. “Look,” he turns again to Northern Ireland and forces himself to gentle his tone, “if you eat your peas, then you can have a double helping of pudding. How does that sound?”  
  
“What’s for pudding?” Northern Ireland asks, his brows contracting.  
  
“I made fruit cake,” England says, smiling. He’d been moderately proud of how it had turned out for once; only the top inch or so had been charred beyond any hope of salvage.  
  
Northern Ireland’s mouth follows his eyebrows’ suit. “Fruit cake tastes like –”  
  
The last of England’s patience gurgles away down the metaphorical plughole. “Right, that’s quite enough,” he snaps. Fuck discouragement, fuck joy, tarnished or otherwise; there are some lessons Northern Ireland needs to learn sooner rather than later, regardless. “If you can’t say something nice, North, don’t say anything at all.”


End file.
